“The point,” Dara said, setting down the glass with a harsh click against wood, “is that I’m still hungry.”
He tried to arch a single brow but wasn’t sure how well he managed it. His facial muscles felt slow and clumsy, awkward.
God, had his tolerance really gotten that bad? He’d only been sober for six months. He should still be able to hold his liquor.
To provide convergent evidence for such a hypothesis, Dara poured another drink and downed that one too.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Wow, how had the bartender gotten all the way over here so fast? Dara narrowed his eyes at him, searching for signs of a witching teleport ... teleportationist? Teleportpath?
Whatever.
“No,” Dara said, perhaps more aggressively than warranted.
“I’m going to bring you a water,” the bartender said.
“I hate water.”
“Too bad.”
The man even added a slice of lemon, for garnish.Pretentious,Noam’s voice said in Dara’s mind, and Dara suddenly wanted to throw up.
He took the water and sipped it to push against the bile. The bartender watched with a steady gaze, hands braced against the edge of the bar. How long had Dara been here? There was only one other customer left, a sad old man at the far end nursing a dirty martini. He tried reaching into the bartender’s mind, but that only made him dizzy. These days telepathy was nothing more than a thought experiment.
Sickness rolled through his gut, a steady sway inevitable as the tide. He couldn’t quite focus his eyes well enough to make out the details of the bartender’s face anymore. He was East Asian, with brown hair. Attractive? Maybe?
The bartender reached for the bourbon bottle and pressed the cork back in. “I think you’re done.”
Dara lurched forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. The bartender had already set the bottle on the counter behind him, out of reach.
“I have money,” Dara argued. He slapped a wrinkled handful of cash on the counter. “If I’mpayingfor it—”
The bartender snorted. “How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?”
“I’m twenty-two. You saw my ID.”
“I saw yourfakeID, sure.”
Dara made a face. “Fine, I’m nineteen. I’m still over age. Give me the bourbon.”
“Nope. Drink your water.”
Dara obeyed, then hated himself for obeying. The water wasn’t settling well in his stomach.
Down the bar, the old man tugged on his coat. When he left, the wind blew a flurry of snow in through the open door. The cold air cut through Dara’s clothes too easily, prickling against his skin like hundreds of tiny needles.
“Your bourbon’s shitty, anyway,” he informed the bartender. He was distantly aware the words weren’t coming out right, consonants bleeding together and vowels overlong. “D’you know that? Shitty. Fucking. Bourbon. Do better.”
“Oh? And what would you know about it?” The man’s brows went up, and he wassmiling, damn him. “Are you an expert in fancy whiskeys?”
“Maybe I am.” Dara jabbed a finger against the sticky bar top. “Look at you. Serving your customers this ... this high-rye swill. Not even single barrel.”
“Some people like rye bourbons.”
“Not. Me.”
The bartender laughed. “You’re a snobby little shit, aren’t you?”
